Paging Dr. Freud

Actually, I don't need a psychoanalyst to tell me what this dream means:

It's morning (actually, early afternoon) and I'm just starting to get ready for work while Cory's about to leave the apartment. When he goes downstairs, I ask him what came in the mail (we have one of those groovy mail slots in our front door, so most mornings I just peek down the stairs and I can see the mail sitting there). Anyway, he tells me that nothing's come yet.

So get ready for work and Cory leaves. When I wander downstairs to grab my purse and go, I see a stack of mail. And I mean a stack. At least a foot high, of large envelopes (8x12 or so). I look at the first one, and it's a job rejection letter. I look down the stack, and every single one of them is from a television station, and they're all rejection letters. Actually, they're all rejection dissertations. Not just letters, these are 50-page bound manifestos about how much I suck.

So, that's the dream that woke me up on Tuesday morning. Think I'm feeling a little insecure about the job hunt? Yeah. Me, too.